


Velvet For My Frame

by freakylemurcat



Series: Your Whole Body [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Earrings, Everybody Lives, Jewelry, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Oral Sex, Piercings, Porn With Plot, Tongue Piercings, but not the evil sort of jewelry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Quest has been a success, and the dwarves are returning to the Lonely Mountain. </p><p>Bilbo, on the other hand, has acquired quite a few more jewellery related problems than he had realised would become an issue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Expected Journey

Thorin Oakenshield is a dwarf true to his word, and, sure enough, the first thing he does on reclaiming Erebor is set aside the chambers that will become the Royal Quarters. On the first night they share them Thorin and Bilbo still lack a bed, but they have bed rolls and Thorin’s furs as blankets and this is a time for quiet intimacy, of being wrapped up and basking in the presence of each other.

Bilbo knows, somehow he  _knows_  deep in his core, that the Company have all survived the battle through sheer bloody luck. Somewhere out there is a Bilbo Baggins who must spend the first night in reclaimed Erebor weeping for the loss of the King Under the Mountain, and he clings hard enough to Thorin’s arms to leave bruises. That is, of course, not to say they survived wholly intact – Thorin’s body is littered with scrapes and cuts, poor Kili has had his face laid open by an orc sword and Dwalin is missing even more of his ears than previously. Bilbo himself has come out the other side with only bruises and scrapes, and Thorin’s thumb lingers on the cut on his temple long into the night.

The first couple weeks are just as hard as the journey it had taken them to get there: the injured to treat, dead to bury, treaties to be carved out with elves and with Men, trading agreements to barter over, repairs to be done to the great halls and caverns. Bilbo patters about and helps all he can, but it is Thorin who rules over all with a steady hand. The first time Bilbo sees the dwarf king sat on his throne, crown on his brow, he thinks he’s never seen anything as majestic and sets about luring Thorin back to their chambers almost immediately.

By then, the bedrolls had been replaced with a lowly pallet bed – hay and cheap linens, but better than bare rock – and Bilbo luxuriates in having a bed for once even as he writhes under Thorin’s attentions. In Lake town they had already learned the best way of pleasing each other, so here the hobbit practices that exact best way to play with Thorin’s nipple piercings, and enjoys how excellent the piercing on the dwarf’s thick cock feels grinding deep inside him. Like young lovers, they spend the whole night in bliss and come morning Thorin produces needles and gold with a hopeful expression.

“Your tongue,” he says, heating the first needle in the roaring fire and Bilbo watches in shivering anticipation as the needle glows. “So everyone will know to listen to what you say.”

 It burns so hot it’s cold, and Bilbo can’t help the few tears that leak out at the pain after the gold stud is fitted in place. His tongue feels twice as large now, and the stud clacks against his teeth, but Thorin kisses his forehead and says, “What would I have done without your counsel, when the elves and Men ranged against us? Imagine the battle that would have unfolded, if we had not had your sense.”

 “Your left nipple for your coming of age,” says Thorin as he slides the first golden hoop onto Bilbo’s chest, and the needle trembles when it comes to that on the side of his heart. “And your right for your great deed.” He mumbles in Khuzdul, voice husky and deep, as he places the last ring in place and his lips brush gently over the gold. “For saving me.”

 Bilbo would whisper back, “My King,” if only his tongue did not ache so abominably. Instead he nuzzles Thorin’s braids and clings to broad shoulders as he’s laid back in the furs and Thorin’s hips ease between his spread thighs once more.

 

* * *

 

In the end they agree that Bilbo should go home to the Shire, if only to sort out his belongings and Bag End before returning. Erebor is a busy place, and Thorin a very busy dwarf, and Bilbo’s new jewellery really rather prevents quite a lot of their clinches. This is probably the best time.

The young brothers of Durin’s line are heading to the Blue Mountains to inform the dwarf colonies there of their uncle’s success at the Lonely Mountain, and to collect all of those who wish to return, and Bilbo accompanies them, with only a couple heartsick glances back at the rebuilt gates of Erebor as they leave.

The journey comes with the aid of those lands they must pass through – the wood elves are almost hospitable and lead them through the forest swiftly, possibly to prevent further aggravation of the spider population, and Beorn shepherds them down and across to the pass over the Misty Mountains, which are much easier to traverse this time. They stop at Rivendell to give their gratitude to Elrond, and pass on messages from the various rulers the other side of Mirkwood, and then it is an easy journey to the edge of the Shire. Here Bilbo persuades Fili and Kili to head on with due haste and let him journey back to Hobbiton himself, less he draw even more attention to himself than he certainly already has.

It doesn’t really work. Hobbits come out of their holes to watch his pony trot past, people whisper and mutter behind their hands and the stream of people steadily pillaging Bag End halt worriedly whenever he arrives in the lane.

“You are meant to be dead,” says Lobelia Sackville-Baggins in an accusing fashion, her dress jingling merrily as she elbows her way to the front of the crowd.

“Well, I am not, and therefore those are still my spoons,” says Bilbo, who’s sat in on enough negotiations between tight-fisted wood-elves and stubborn dwarves to know exactly how to dismiss an idiot. “And that is my wardrobe, and those are my chairs and  _that_  is my dressing gown.” He snatches it back from a frustrated looking Proudfoot and slings it over his shoulder. “As you can plainly see, I am not dead, so kindly cease your looting of my property.”

His hand has always settled nicely on the hilt of Sting, and perhaps it is this that encourages the hobbits to return his belongings so swiftly. To show there are no bad feelings, and that hobbits are nice folk regardless, there comes his way a steady stream of greetings and well-wishes from various people, and invitations down to the Green Dragon that evening to share his story of adventure with them.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” says Bilbo, to a disappointed sigh from the onlookers, “But it has been a very long journey, and I have only eyes for my bed this eve.”

“What is that in your mouth?” asks Lobelia, who apparently has an eye for gold greater than a dwarf.

“A symbol,” says Bilbo smartly. “Which you would understand if you were dwarves. But you are not, so it is not important.” He can only imagine how scandalised they would be if they knew what he wore under the handsome waistcoat and shirt he had had tailored in Laketown – the slim gold hoops are warm on his skin, and the piercings long healed on the journey.

It takes much longer to chivvy everyone out of Bag End, especially the Sackville-Bagginses who have to be bribed with a case of silver cutlery to leave in the end, but finally Bilbo Baggins is back in his cosy little hobbit hole again.

Except… His fire burns as merrily in the grate as ever, but it does not roar like the fires burn in Erebor. His chair is comfortable, but there is no dwarf king on his throne to accompany him. His bed is not the great carved spectacle, with silk sheets and splendid furs, and it contains no sign of Thorin Oakenshield. With no one pressed close to his back, no great arms to burrow under, no one snoring faintly in his ear, Bilbo falls asleep grudgingly.

 

* * *

 

He sorts through and packs his belongings as harshly as he can, because he cannot take much on the journey back. Most of the furniture he bequeaths to various relatives and friends, making sure to gift several pieces to the Gamgee family down the lane, who were happy but often seemed lacking the richer things in life. The deed to Bag End itself he signs away to his cousin Drogo, on the proviso that the Gamgee clan would continue to be employed to care for the gardens and the house and perhaps that Bilbo might be able to come and stay whenever the hulking mass of the Lonely Mountain grew too heavy on his mind. 

With everything done and sorted,  Bilbo is left to sit and wait. He cracks open one of the barrels of Old Toby he had squirrelled away for the journey and sat out on the wooden bench in his front garden and enjoys a nice smoke every night.  Every morning he wanders around the Shire,  journeying as far as he can every day just for the joy of seeing the rolling hills and shallow bubbling streams again,  slopes dotted with cheerfully painted round doors and the fields filled with gambolling sheep and flustered chickens.  It is all very lovely and cosy,  but Bilbo find himself standing atop of drumlins and thinking about mountains and walking through trout filled streams and willow copses and thinking of lakes filled with dragon bones and forests so great you couldn’t see the other side.

Time goes on. Bilbo grows impatient, but tries not to show it else the people of Hobbiton think him even odder than they already do. He knows the Blue Mountains are a distance away and that the dwarves will also need time to gather their possessions and ready themselves to move, but it does not change the fact that he wants to go _now_.

 

* * *

 

The sound of a heavy hand banging on his door startles Bilbo from his writing desk, where he had been scribbling down notes from his adventures, and he pattered around the loops of corridors to the front, heaving the door open with a flourish. 

At his door is a dwarf, as he had expected. A female dwarf no less – with dark hair in a tight braid and a fine beard entwined with jewels, her eyes are blue and hooded and her brow strong.

“Lady Dís,” says Bilbo, bowing politely, “At your service.”

Dís gives him a quick once over, her expression achingly similar to her brother’s whenever he was considering something deeply, and then laughed and clapped Bilbo on the shoulder. Over-proportionate strength was evidently a trait shared by both sexes of dwarf, and Bilbo’s knees bend slightly under the blow.

“And I at yours and your family’s!” She smiles wryly and says, “I can see why Thorin had you get your tongue pierced, if you think as quickly as that all the time.”

Bilbo clacks the stud against his teeth, as he as prone to doing when he thinks deeply, and says, “I have my moments. Please, do come in.”

As it turns out, over scones and tea because Bilbo Baggins was a polite hobbit if nothing else, that Fili and Kili are being reprobates down at the Green Dragon and Dís had long given up on them and come to find the esteemed Mr Baggins herself.

  
"I would despair of them," she says,  sipping her tea with a mild expression until Bilbo offers the neat little dwarven flask Nori had gifted to him in Erebor,  containing a nice nip of brandy for her tea.  "That'll do very nicely...  Yes,  well I would despair of them but they are good boys and a mother must be blind to some foibles."

Bilbo thinks of Kili's face,  laid open gruesomely by the orc sword and destined to carry a dashing scar across the bridge of his nose and cheek for the rest of his life,  and of Fili,  who has a few extra lines on his brow and a shoulder that will ache forever in the cold to bear,  and thinks that it’s good that their mother at least still sees them as the young bucks they are. "They did well,"  he says and drizzles a little more brandy into his own tea. 

They talk of the journey and the Battle of the Five Armies and the ruins that Smaug had left Erebor in,  until the mood grows overly morose and Dís diverts to greener pastures,  asking about the shire and hobbits and their cosy little homes and lives.  Bilbo explains all he can,  asking about the Blue Mountains in return,  and the pair of them are soon deeply involved in reminiscing.

"There are metals and gems in most mountains," says Dís, fiddling with her bags for a moment and returning with a small leather sack that she empties onto the ottoman.  Out spills a king's ransom in gold and silver and jewels,  bracelets and rings and necklaces. "The Blue Mountains were prosperous enough. Erebor will be better still."

Bilbo plucks a little stud of gold out of the glittering mess and turns the earring around in his fingers.  It has been a long time since he had last done something foolhardy after all.

"Thorin attempted to explain to me the meaning of piercings to dwarves," he says,  trying not to blush when Dís grins at him knowingly.  "But he never got to earrings."

"Some things have meaning,  and some are just for the joy of decoration." Dís turns her head and her earrings,  multiple hoops beaded with jewels, shiver in the firelight. "As are those for the navel.  Mostly the women wear them, but males are known to,  especially if they are high-ranking or considered attractive."

Bilbo clicks his tongue stud against his teeth and Dís grins and fetches another bag,  the contents of which are sharp silver needles, hollow and in varying sizes and shapes. It’s easy for the hobbit to recognise their purpose. 

“He wants me in gold,” says Bilbo, rolling the stud around in his fingers and thinking of Thorin’s promises to him. “And in some small way that worries me. I would be lying to deny it.”

Her finger is crooked under his chin, tilting his head up so he can see the firelight reflected as gold in her eyes, and Bilbo swallows. “We of Durin’s line are all affected by the gold-lust, Master Baggins,” she says, so soft he might not have heard it if he hadn’t been listening closely. “All of us. There is no escape from it, and we fear it rightly. In some it is much lessened than others and we may cope with that, but there is always the worry that we will suffer as our forebears suffered with it. Thorin fears it most of all, but I suspect he will remain strong despite that.”

Dís retreats as quickly as she had moved in. “You would look very handsome in gold, Master Baggins, but that is only one reason why my brother cares for you. Do you doubt that?”

“No,” says Bilbo firmly, undoing the clasp of the earring and handing it back to the dwarf. “Not for a moment.”

 

* * *

 

Fili and Kili whisper and chuckle between themselves when this new little company finally leaves the Shire, with Bilbo perched high on his pony and pretending that his newly pierced ears cannot pick up their mischief. Each lobe contains a single stud, with three hoops up the outer rim spaced to highlight the un-dwarflike point at the tip. Dís is a master of her work, and Bilbo can’t help but preen a bit at his own reflection as the swelling goes down. To aid quick healing, she also provides soothing poultices and so the piercings are entirely healed long before they even reach the Western borders of Mirkwood, including the other golden studs placed neatly in his navel and hidden well under an old shirt that was now comfortably baggy on his journey thinned frame.

The forest is less horrifying than before, although darkness lingers in the boughs of the deep wood and there must be a number of guards on watch at all times lest spiders carry them off. Dís still sits tall in her saddle and barely blinks an eyelid when her sons must hack through spider webs that have been spun across the whole of the pathway, and Bilbo tries to sit as tall on his pony, though he is hampered by the urge to hop down and help as well.

It is after one of these occasions, when the company had stopped for a brief rest in a clearing along the road, that the wood elves come springing about them. Bilbo hears the call of horns first, and looks up from trying to peel cobwebs out of his hair just as the first elf drops out of a tree and severely surprises the dwarf who had been resting under it.

The elves don’t seem particularly bothered with the dwarves’ presence, and they pause only briefly in the clearing to bow to Dís and her sons and then to Bilbo, to his utmost embarrassment, before they leap back up into the branches. They are followed swiftly by a cavalry squadron, who come down the path on nimble little forest horses and a few on the backs of great deer. The Elvenking is amongst them, and though it would appear his elk would have to turn its wide antlers sideways to fit through the trees, it proceeds the fastest and more gracefully of all the steeds. As his men trot onwards, he pauses beside Dís and Bilbo, tilting his head in that idiosyncratic way that Bilbo suspects is the equivalent to a bow.

“I trust you have had a pleasant journey?” he says, and there is a certain unspoken plea to not talk about the spiders. Bilbo’s happy enough to obey, because he doesn’t like the blasted things either and certainly pities the elves who have to battle them daily, but Kili is listening in and speaks before his mother has a chance to be civil.

“Grand,” says the youngest of the line of Durin, adding, “Aside from the insects.”

“Ah,” says Thranduil, his lips pursing slightly.

“They add character,” says Dís, giving her son a sharp look. “And they have not overly bothered us. Are you away to hunt them?”

“We are always hunting them, my lady,” says Thranduil, his otherworldly calm countenance creasing in irritation for a moment. “But, it is no great hardship for us. The season is turning and soon the beasts will struggle through the winter; we will have peace for a few months in the snows.”

Sure enough, the King is no longer wearing his crown of autumn red leaves and crisp berries, but a weaved circlet of holly leaves and fir twigs.

“Oh, you’ve changed your crown!” exclaims Bilbo, who had always rather liked the Elvenking’s crowns for all seasons, although he didn’t quite like the piercing gaze of the elf being focused entirely on him. “It’s very nice,” he adds, because it’s only polite.

Thranduil surveys him briefly, and then smiles, in a sharp, acid fashion. “As have you, Master Baggins, although yours appears to have settled about your ears.”

Bilbo touches his ears and blushes as he realises what the elf referred to – his earrings, bright gold cool in the air.

“I hope you find the rest of your journey easy,” says the Elvenking, casting his gaze ahead to where the tail end of his company have disappeared into the forest. “You should find the paths clearer and the spiders less numerous from here on.”

  
“Thank you,” Dís bows her head and Bilbo does the same as the Elvenking’s elk strides on. They wait until the forest is silent again, and then both Fili and Kili curse all elves and all spiders and all apple barrels so thoroughly their mother boxes their ears and threatens to wash out their mouths with soap.

“Uncle calls Thranduil a weed-eating bastard all the time!” complains Kili, rubbing his sore ear.

“Well, then Bilbo can wash Thorin’s mouth out with soap in his own time,” says Dís, sounding exasperated with all menfolk. “Now get back on your ponies. We shall make Laketown in a couple days if we ride hard.”

 

* * *

 

Journeying by pony is much more pleasant than by foot – or barrel – but Bilbo is still glad to reach Laketown in the end. It had been rebuilt after Smaug’s last attack, north of where it had stood before, and work was still been completed, so the town rang with the sounds of carpentry and of smithies and stoneworkers and the wooden streets smelt strongly of fresh paints and varnishes. Nevertheless the town was busy, with the human residents and a new contingent of dwarves that Bilbo rarely recognised. They all bowed and tugged their beards respectfully in the presence of Dís and her sons, and a few even granted the hobbit the same gesture.

“Our little halfing hero,” teases Kili, and gets his comeuppance a few minutes later when the hobbit spots a stall selling roasted chestnuts and intersperses eating them with pelting them at the back of the young dwarf’s head. 

In the distance the Lonely Mountain towered grimly, and there were streams of smoke from the bottom of one of the south-eastern slopes. They take rooms on the second floor of an inn and Bilbo spends a few minutes peering out of the windows and trying to figure out what on earth is happening out there.

Information comes in the form of visitors: Dori and Nori arrive the morning after the company’s arrival in town and come visiting to the inn. They bring a message for Dís, written on neat vellum in a hand that looks suspiciously like Ori’s.

“King’s scribe, now,” confirms Dori, pleased as punch. He’s dressed to the nines, Bilbo notices, with rich, hardwearing fabric and new beads in his intricate braids. Nori also looks splendid; though he wears darker, more muted colours and less jewellery, his hair is even more superb than before. “And he’s in charge of the old archives.”

“We’ve had to ask Dwalin to tow him out once a day,” adds Nori, “Else he forgets to eat. The boy gets _vicious_ when you separate him from his books.”

“And how are yourselves? How is everyone else?” asks Fili.

“Oh, well,” says Nori, “Balin and Dwalin are back at their old posts, advising and guarding as ever. Bifur and Bofur have been helping open the mines back up; you should see the lumps of ore they’ve been bringing back up! Bombur has been courting a very lovely lady from the Iron Hills. Oin’s been hard at work in the infirmaries, and Gloin has just returned from the North with his wife and little Gimli, so now we get to watch him fuss over them instead of just listen to it.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice in the gesture. “We are back at the merchant business.”

“ _I_ am back at the merchant business,” says Dori, pointedly.

Nori ignores him neatly and finishes, “And Thorin, of course, is busy being King. No one has tried to overthrow him yet, so I reckon he’s doing a good job.”

“So everyone is doing well,” says Bilbo, feeling relieved, “I am glad to hear it. And how is the Lonely Mountain?”

“Oh, it is excellent, master Bilbo!” says Dori. “The halls are all cleaned and the worst of the damage has been fixed. Some of the old carvings will never be the same of course, but we shall replace those with new designs and it shall be perfect!” A glint passed over his eyes and he exchanged a look with his brother, who chuckled. “And the rooms! Well, I don’t doubt you’ll love those. The King Under the Mountain had special say in some of those!”

“Thorin has moments of supreme taste,” mutters Dís, without looking up from the message. “Although, as his sister, I am of course loathe to say it.”

“Is there building work going on at the foot of the mountain?” asks Bilbo, “I would not have thought you would have wanted to build so far outside the walls, but that is what it looks like from this distance.”

“That is Dale,” said Dori, tucking his thumbs into his belt, “Bard is rebuilding his ancestor’s town along the banks of the River Running. You shall see it in a few days, although there is not much to look at yet. The King has declared a feast day in honour of your contingent’s return, you see.”

“A feast!” says Bilbo, forgetting immediately about new towns and reconstruction work. He had been enjoying the plentiful food served at the inn with some glee: a hobbit could deal with many of the dangers that the road threw at him, but the lack of regular and filling meals was simply intolerable. A feast would be just the thing.

“A feast!” echoes Dís, tucking the vellum away and clapping her hands together, her face lighting up into canny delight. “Excellent! Dori, Nori, you must come with me! There are things to be done!”

 

* * *

  
Before,  when Bilbo had not met Dís,  he had suspected that Fili and Kili's continent wide mischievous streak had come from their father,  because there was no way the sister of the grimly majestic Thorin Oakenshield could have passed that misbehaviour down to her sons.  Now,  Bilbo suspects that Dís certainly had her role to play.  She nearly claps her hands in glee when Bilbo appears from behind the dressing curtain in his new clothes.  The silks and velvets have been dyed red and blue and steely grey,  and there is a trim of silvery fur about the lapels of the coat,  glittering thread swen through the shirt and ivory buttons on his waistcoat.  He feels a bit like a lamb being dressed up for the slaughter, especially when Dís shows him his reflection in the mirror.

"Your greens and yellows suit you better,  of course, " says Dís,  opening one of her little leather bags of treasures, "But these are Thorin's colours, dwarf colours,  and we must present you specially for the night."

"I’m going to be eaten alive," groans Bilbo, carefully unclipping the golden ear studs and replacing them with the delicate hoops Dís offers him. She tells him to keep the original tongue stud in,  and there's little chance of him ever swapping his nipple piercings for any other - he earned them for saving Thorin's life after all - , or removing his ring from its chain about his neck, but she weaves gold strands of chain into his hair and presses something into his hand when she is finished. 

It is a navel piercing, a curve of metal with a pale blue sapphire set on the lower barbell, and the gem alone must be worth half of Bag End. 

"You saved our home,  Master Baggins," says Dís softly, her voice firm and unbroachable.  "You out thought dragon and the rulers of multiple armies and you have saved my brother’s life multiple times.  Consider this a gift, from your sister."

“Oh!” Bilbo turns the piercing over and over in his hands, feeling a blush scour up to the tips of his ears. “I- Well, I…” He looks up and meets Dís’ gaze, kindly and grateful, and smiles back. “Thank you. I shall treasure it.”

 

* * *

 

They pack their new purchases and their old accoutrements and set off finally for the Lonely Mountain, a whole convoy of dwarves and wagons in tow. The journey is slightly too long to be completed in one day, so they must stop in the shell of Dale for the night and  get readied in their finery come the morning.

So it comes the next day they set off, dressed in silks and velvets and every last one of them wearing a handful of precious metal in some capacity. Bilbo perches on his pony – neatly washed and brushed to a shine - at the head of the column and tries not to blush too spectacularly when anyone glances his way. Plenty of dwarves do, he notices, many of them are from the Iron Hills and have evidently never seen a hobbit before, certainly not one dressed up in dwarf made clothes and decorated with dwarf made jewellery.

They make a good pace up the road – newly paved and easy on the ponies’ hooves – and it is only minutes before they are at the gates of the mountain. The new doors are constructs of strong wood and stone, with metal brackets so new they still glisten with oil. At their foot two squadrons of professionally armoured dwarf soldiers stand to attention, with Dwalin at their head. He looks good at the head of his men, and Bilbo salutes him cheekily as the little column drew up.

“Our esteemed burglar has returned at last,” the warrior dwarf growls, but he beams regardless, the smile splitting his grizzled face from chewed ear to ear. “I was starting to think the comforts of your wee hole had gotten to you.”

“Oh honestly,” says Bilbo, with a dismissive flap of his hand, “I said I’d come back, when have you known me not to follow through with my plans?” He hops down off the pony, having to move carefully so as to not tip himself onto the ground face first – that hadn’t been amongst his plans for a triumphant return to Erebor. Dwalin gives him an appreciative smirk, eyes flickering around the fur collar of his jacket and pausing on the plumes of gold hanging from his ears for a moment longer than necessary. Bilbo’s attempt at a welcoming handshake was batted aside and he finds himself drawn into a hug so tight it threatens to suffocate him, his toes dangling helplessly a good half foot about the ground as he is squeezed.

“Try not to hug the hobbit to death before Uncle Thorin can get a hold of him,” says Fili dryly, leaping off his pony, his brother swiftly following suit. Both of them look far more regal than they normally manage; Fili especially has drawn himself up to his full height, though there were few things that would ever truly rid him of his pleasantly cocky smirk. Dís watches them with fond eyes, narrowed all the same as they greet the older dwarf. Apparently pleased at what she sees, she eases herself down from her own pony and waded into the middle of the greetings with out-stretched arms. Dwalin earns himself an embrace -  whether he wants one or not is clearly not a matter he isn’t allowed to express an opinion on - and then a brief telling off for the state of his ear.

“We’ve had carts coming in from Laketown for days,” says Dwalin as the luggage trailers rumble past into the cool depths of the mountain. “Tonight is going to be a feast to remember!”

“Or possibly to forget,” says Dís, as two wagons loaded with casks pass by. “Depending on consumption.”

 


	2. And Back Again

Erebor’s halls still carries the scars from Smaug’s invasion, but the dwarves have been very busy in Bilbo’s absence. The great gouges upon the walls where the dragon had clawed its way from the entry hall had been patched with gold and broken stone had been replaced with new granite and marble. Bilbo had gawped at the sight as the contingent was led through, feeling very out of place once more. 

The throne room is a great cavern of a place, with ceiling so tall Bilbo can only just make out the distant marble eaves. It had been thoroughly destroyed during the dragon’s rule, but it had been one of the first things to be redone, and as a result it was truly a marvel to behold. Bilbo had seen the beginnings of the building before he had headed back to the Shire, but the finished work was a spectacle and a half. Thorin had oft spoken about the throne room in reverent tones and it was clear he had made sure the place matched his memory. There is yet more fresh marble and gold to seal the cracks, all pillars and arches whole and a great raised dais at the far end on which sat the Throne under the Mountain.

Everywhere Bilbo looks there are dwarves; not just soldiers and councilmen, but merchants and miners and jewellers and smiths. There are beards in every colour of hair the hobbit has ever seen – from silver and white to brown and black and red and even a rare few with golden braids to match their jewellery. The women often have beards to match the more populous males, but trimmed neater and braided in even more intricate designs, though there are few more intricate that the Brothers Ri, who are up at the front of the crowd near the throne. And there is Bofur and Bombur and their cousin Bifur and old Oin and Gloin standing with a red-haired dwarrowdam and a young dwarf just coming into his beard, and that is wise old Balin now by the throne, his old coat replaced with a rich velvet robe.

And then there is Thorin Oakenshield, feet braced on the granite step beneath his throne, fists resting on the marble arms and looking even more majestic than when Bilbo had left him. He is in an outfit rich in velvet and supple, well worked leathers, and on his normally grim brow rests a crown that suits him so well Bilbo can barely remember seeing him without it at just that first glance. Kingship has suited him well, at least in appearance.

Dwalin stops  a good number of paces from the throne, and the group stop behind him. The crowds shuffle expectantly, a constant current of movement ensuring everyone gets to see what is happening. Bilbo himself shuffles out of Dis’ shadow so he has a better view of proceedings, for this is clearly an important event.

Fili and Kili cross to the dais first, stooping to bow deeply in front of their uncle and only rising when he calls their names.

“My heirs,” Thorin declares, his voice booming in the huge space. Bilbo watches the smile on the king’s face only widen as the young dwarves come to stand by his throne, and then Dis paces forward, all steady strides and calm bearing. “Sister!”

They embrace briefly, though it is tense with emotion. When they draw apart, Dis traces a finger across the rim of the crown and she murmurs something too quiet to be audible even in the booming acoustics of the cavern that makes Thorin smile winningly.

Bilbo has been left standing on his own beside Dwalin, and now all eyes are starting to swing to him. Telling himself he has faced down dragons and orcs and spider and kings of all kinds is little help – at least then it had been acceptable to put on his ring and vanish into thin air. Somehow he suspects that would go down less well here.

“Bilbo Baggins.” The Dwarf King’s voice is quieter, and a hush falls on the hall as Bilbo patters forward. He wishes he could manage Fili and Kili’s cocky strides or Dis’ calm paces, but he’s too short to do anything but trot along. He skips up the stairs to the dais and nearly chokes on his own tongue stud when Thorin strides forward and pulls him into a tight embrace before his last foot has even cleared the top of the last step. “My burglar, my hobbit,” Thorin rumbles into his ear and Bilbo reaches around to knot his fingers in the back of Thorin’s velvet tunic. There are hundreds of eyes on them, watching this reunion, and Bilbo finds he couldn’t care less. He’s back with his dwarf king and that’s what he wanted.

There is a nice little space for Bilbo to stand in by the throne, hand still tightly clasped in Thorin’s big fist, and he takes up position beside Dis as the other dwarves from the Blue Mountains are called forward. Balin calls the names out now, though Thorin still greets them personally, some in a friendlier fashion than others. Bilbo stands patiently, making sure to remember names as possible as dwarf after dwarf comes up, and tries not to blush too hard when some bow their heads to him as well.

Finally the last dwarves are greeted and sent to stand with their relatives in the crowds – the last are a small family with tiny dwarflings, both too young to have ever seen the mountain before and so overawed they can only stare – and Balin rolls his scrolls closed with a pointed rustle. Thorin nods briefly and then Bilbo is tugged forward by the grip the dwarf King has on his hand as he stands up.

“We have gained greatly today!” The King exclaims, voice rolling around the hall like a great boulder. “And now, we must celebrate!” He raises his hands, nearly jerking Bilbo off his feet as his hand flies up too, and the hall reverberates with the cheers. Thorin chuckles, the noise audible even through the roar of the dwarves, and bends his shaggy, be-crowned head to murmur a pleased greeting in Bilbo’s ear.

“I have missed you, Mr Baggins,” he rumbles, and Bilbo can feel his face go a flustered crimson even as his lips curve into a smile. The dwarves around are still cheering, though they are starting to mill about again in preparation to head to the feasting hall.

“I was right about the gold,” continues  Thorin, sounding especially pleased with himself as he nuzzles the top hoop through Bilbo’s ear.

“Behave!” gasps Bilbo, although he’s quite happy to tilt his head a little more to the side, just so Thorin can nip the very tip of his ear. “Control yourself through the feast, and then we shall see.”

“I’m sure we could make a quiet escape now,” purrs Thorin, chuckling immediately when Bilbo grants him an unimpressed look at the thought of missing all that food. “Ah, I forgot; who dares separate a halfing from his dinner is a brave person indeed.”

“This is lunch and dinner and afternoon tea all in one,” says Bilbo, almost wringing his hands together in glee at the thought. He stands up on tiptoes and kisses Thorin softly. “And while you are an exceedingly brave dwarf indeed, I shouldn’t recommend getting in my way right now.”

“I shall sit back and pass you the platters,” rumbles Thorin, still sounding nothing less than pleased as he leads the hobbit into the great feasting hall.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo had admired the wood-elves arrangement for feasting back in the days of the quest, but the banquet hall of the Lonely Mountain was something else entirely. There are six long stone tables spanning the whole length of the hall, with a seventh placed width wise on a low dais at the far end of the hall. Flaming braziers roar in sconces high up on the walls between tapestries depicting famous deeds of dwarven bravery, but natural light slips through a series of narrow windows high up on one wall. The tables are all covered in silvered platters and bowls and for every four dwarves there is a great jug of mead to be filled from the huge casks against one of the walls.

Bilbo is granted a seat in a prime position, at Thorin’s left hand side. On the King’s other side is his sister and along the rest of the length of the table is the Company, all as pleased as punch to be granted such a priviledged seat.

The feast ranges on for hours and hours, with breaks for dancing and music and storytelling – Bilbo may have clambered onto a table at one point and recounted a mildly embellished tale of how he saved the company from being eaten by trolls, as the rest of the company in question attempted to hinder his performance with heckling. Even Thorin is convinced to sing at the end, though it is Bilbo that requests it:  the song that the Company had sung in his hobbit hole that had so convinced him to join them on their quest. The whole hall echoes with the notes, and after the song is done there is a brief moment of shivering silence before the noise ratchets up again.

Thorin leans over and murmurs, “We may take our leave soon, else I fear we will never make it elsewhere tonight. I have something to show you.”

“Oh?” Bilbo can’t stop the shiver that goes through his frame when Thorin lands a soft kiss on the topmost hoop through his ear.

 

* * *

 

The King’s Quarters are well tucked into the bulk of the mountain, occupying one of the oldest excavated cavern, where the floors and wall are smoothed not just through expert craftsmanship, but age and use. Bilbo patters along the corridors slightly drunkenly, ricocheting off walls in his game to keep himself just out of Thorin’s eager grasp. The King looks considerably less tipsy and much more hungry, eyes glinting in the light from the lamps.

“You should be leading the way,” says Bilbo, twiddling one of the hoops through his ear in a pointedly absent fashion. “I feel as though this arrangement is purely for your benefit.”

Thorin twitches an eyebrow and casts his gaze over the hobbit with a smirk. “That, and we have not moved from our original quarters. It is merely their inners that differ.”

Bilbo’s thoughts drift to the precious jewel beaded through his navel and answers Thorin with a smirk of his own. “Ah, well, we shall definitely have to see this then.”

Thorin had said that ‘merely’ the inside of their rooms had changed, but Bilbo suspects deeply that ‘merely’ means something different to dwarves than it does to hobbits.

Their bedroom is no longer a smoke stained cave, with shattered floors and a lowly pallet bed covered in furs to lie on, but something so sumptuous even Bilbo Baggins, one of the richest hobbits in the Shire stops dead in the wide doorway and just stares. This allows Thorin a moment to catch up and dart forward, light on his feet even full of ales and laden down in his velvet tunics, and snatch the hobbit up.

“You do not weigh enough to have put away that much food,” says Thorin, absently nuzzling Bilbo’s ear again and carrying him forward into the room proper. Bilbo does not complain, as he is too busy staring still.

Lamps and candles of the best quality light the room from elaborately carved sconces, supplemented with narrow tunnels through the ceiling, which cast a pale glow that the hobbit supposes must come from the moon. A fire roars in a hearth big enough that Bilbo could stand in comfortably, had the flames been extinguished. Of all the furniture in the room, the most important is the huge bed, carven from black granite, posts polished to a sheen so deep it swallows the light. The frame is topped with a thick mattress, and that is heaped with silk sheets and pillows and clean, soft furs.

“Do you like it?” asks Thorin, sounding justifiably smug. Bilbo wriggles out of his grip in answer, and runs to the bed, feet slapping on oak floorboards. He has to clamber up onto the top and then he tosses himself down amid the sheets, laughing.

“This is remarkable!” he says, burying his toes into the softest fur – made of some animal that had previously been silvered grey and very, very large -, “Thorin, this is _beautiful_!” The canopy is so delicately carved he gets up on his feet to inspect them – runes and complicated angular dwarvish patterns, combined with what look like careful copies of flowers and round Shire designs.

“I only finished the bed frame last moon,” says Thorin, boots thumping heavily on the floorboards as he places the crown on a sideboard and then paces forward. “I will be the first to admit stone work is not my strong suit.”

“You carved this?” Bilbo splutters for a few moments, and now when he looks so closely at the stone he can see clumsier chips and slips in the work that he wouldn’t normally see in dwarf stonework. “Oh Thorin…”

“I had to get one of Bofur’s relatives to carve the bathtub.”

“Bathtubs are harder than swords?” teases Bilbo, dropping down to his knees and nearly chuckling with glee when the mattress bounces under him.

“Blacksmithing is a far different skill set than stonework.” Thorin tosses his head, throwing his braids back over his shoulders grandly, and paces closer so Bilbo could catch a hold of his belt. “I think I did rather well, given the circumstances."

Bilbo laughs and cranes his neck up to kiss his king softly.

 

* * *

 

While out on the quest and deep in the wilds, Thorin had always looked wild and fierce, no matter how dishevelled he had become and Bilbo had always appreciated this stern handsomeness. Thorin  as King Under the Mountain, in his rich clothes and his crown on his brow and with his hair neatly braided and beard clean and carefully trimmed. He doesn’t look as harrowed anymore, but healthy and happy and well. And even more naturally handsome than Bilbo had ever seen him. 

And Thorin is evidently well pleased with what he sees as well. His hands run over Bilbo compulsively: flickering around the back of his neck, fingers dipped down below the collar onto over warm skin beneath, then running down his spine, bracing over his hips and then grasping two firm handfuls of Bilbo’s arse. The hobbit squeaks in brief surprise but cannot bring himself to complain further, since his own hands are buried somewhere in the many layers of velvets and leather about the King’s broad waist.

Thick fingers remove themselves from the temptation they find about Bilbo’s backside, and curl up into his hair. Thorin tugs lightly on the thin strands of precious wire that had been braided into Bilbo’s curls, turning the beads about speculatively.

“You are dressed in my colours,” says Thorin, twisting the braid tight. “I believe it suits you well.”

“I believe you just want me marked out as your own,” murmurs Bilbo rather breathlessly, as Thorin tweaks the topmost ring through his right ear.

“And why  should I not?,” Thorin growls,  lowering his mouth so each charged word is delivered straight to the hobbit’s sensitive ear. “You are a lovely creature, dressed so handsomely in metals and gems. There was many a gaze that rested on your covetously this night.”

“Oh, please…” chuffs Bilbo. He is not an unattractive creature he knows – many a hobbit had been led astray by his charms before – but he had not noticed any such gaze upon him that night. “But, you will note, my eyes were firmly upon you, my King.”

Thorin’s smile became thoroughly predatory, though his eyes were pleased. “Ah? Is that so?”

Bilbo kisses him as answer, drawing him neatly forward onto the bed with the temptation of more. The dwarf king is easily lured, especially when Bilbo nips cheekily at his lower lip, and bore his greater bulk against his lover until they were sprawled amid the furs. Bilbo wriggles his toes amid the sheets – he cannot move much else of himself underneath Thorin’s weight, bar his hands which are occupied running up and down the dwarf’s back – and rubs his cheek against thick stubble until his skin burns from the friction. Thorin’s mouth is murmuring endearments into Bilbo’s ear in rumbling Dwarvish, lips brushing against the earrings. The comforting cosiness of Thorin’s bulk resting above his own and the earth-dark richness of the dwarf’s voice have Bilbo breathless and blushing within minutes, and his hands clutch at the shift of muscles until Thorin rears up and peers down at him.

“What more attentions could you need, Mr Baggins?”

Bilbo ‘hmmph’s at the smug tone and snags a silver beaded braid as it unhooks itself from over Thorin’s shoulder. A sharp tug and Thorin  catches his hands in his own big paws and then Bilbo has him; he guides his lover’s hands to the shining buttons on his waistcoat.

Judging by the expression that appears on Thorin’s face, Bilbo expects callused hands to rip the clothes from his body, oils to be applied hurriedly and to be mounted like an animal. But Thorin is calm and slow - not controlled,  his hands tremble and the cords of muscle clench tight in his bared forearms - fingers working patiently on the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt.  A big hand slips beneath to press firmly to where the hobbit's heart pounds beneath his skin.  Thorin inclines his head down again, purring in a deep breath amid Bilbo's curls. The scent seems to spur him on, and he brushes the coat and shirt off his shoulders effortlessly.

  
"Ah yes...." Thorin smiles as if reintroduced to an old friend. His thumb brushes a nipple piercing and Bilbo jerks helplessly, a gasp coming to his mouth unbidden. More were pried from him in short notice when Thorin applied his mouth in much the same fashion, tongue rolling about the peaks and teeth tweaking the piercing until Bilbo was nigh on begging for more, or at the very least mercy.

Bilbo wriggles, clutching a hand to his face to prevent himself from giggling, as Thorin trails down a little further. His hands are already working the laces and buttons at the front of Bilbo’s trousers, and his stubble is scratching the sensitive, soft skin of his belly and flanks, when Bilbo feels him still abruptly.

“Now this is a sight….” Thorin’s voice is even rougher than before, so husky it seems to vibrate through Bilbo’s very bones. When he peers down, Thorin is focussed firmly on the glittering sapphire, and he has a _very_ predatory fashion on his face when he glances up and meets the hobbit’s curious gaze. He shifts down amidst the furs slightly and rests one heavy forearm across Bilbo’s belt line, easily pinning him down. Bilbo would wriggle with anticipation if he could – his cock is well awakened now, despite the normal dimming quality of dwarvish ales – at the thought of what Thorin might do to him next. His hand had been a faithful companion over the course of their separation, but a rather unsatisfying one, and this had been a well anticipated return.

But Thorin, as ever, is a wicked dwarf and thoroughly determined to make Bilbo’s life as hard as possible. He ducks his great shaggy head down and presses a kiss to the sapphire at the hobbit’s navel twice, with a pleased little murmur each time. Bilbo yelps as soft bites are littered onto his stomach, briefly detouring down one of his flanks to torture him thereabouts, jerking and wriggling with renewed vigour with each nip. Eventually the touches drift upwards again, to lap over his nipples one last time, and Thorin looms over him for a long kiss.

“You remain full of surprises, Master Burglar,” he rumbles when they break apart, as he runs a his fingers through Bilbo’s hair, snagging chains and threads gently as he does so. 

“I would hate to leave you bored,” says Bilbo – he wishes he could say he does so with the same easy, husky confidence that Thorin always banters with, but he sounds squeaky and shaky.  

“And I doubt that will be a problem, with you so nicely bejewelled.” A big calloused hand cups Bilbo’s jaw, tilting his head back and to the side so Thorin can kiss his throat before descending down his body. One-handed, and surprisingly deft as such, the dwarf king undoes the laces of Bilbo’s trousers, eases his fingers beneath the waistband of his underclothes and brings them just far enough down.

Bilbo bites his lip sharply at the cool air on his overheated skin, as his cock springs out of its confines. He hadn’t realised how confined it had felt until now, and the relief feels even better for the unexpectedness. So focused is he on the sensation, he neglects to notice the shift of Thorin’s weight down his legs, so the dwarf’s barrel chest is trapping his calves to the bed and his hips are once more pinned by a burly forearm; his attention is only drawn back by a puff of hot breath against the wetness on the very tip and Thorin’s wicked smile.

A long wet swipe up his cock makes his toes curl and his fists clutch helplessly at the furs and sheets until they are dreadfully crumpled about his fists. Thorin chuckles deeply and takes another lap, and another, until Bilbo is acutely aware of the shrillness of his breath as he gasps.

“Oh, don’t tease!” he bleats, blushing crimson as he does so, and Thorin murmurs obediently, mouthing the base of Bilbo’s cock for only a moment more. He hovers over the tip for a  moment and then lowers his mouth onto it, hot and wet. Bilbo gasps and groans, his hips trying desperately to jerk up despite Thorin’s heavy presence pressing him down, and the furs became increasingly rucked under his fists as Thorin’s mouth slowly took more of him in. They prove unsatisfying to grip and twist, so his hands wander – first over his own chest where the nipple rings still throb with the memory of Thorin’s mouth, then down his belly to grip at the tense muscle of the pinning forearm. His fingers dig and grip but there isn’t enough give and tug to satiate him, so he reaches out a little further and ends up with two handfuls of Thorin’s hair. This is infinitely better to scrunch and pull, and Thorin rumbles with each tug.

Already he can feel the heat of orgasm approaching, making his toes curl and his stomach twist agreeably, even as Thorin pleasures him so slowly. It has been so long, with just his hand and his imagination, and now he has the actual thing between his legs, long silvered braids draping around a proud Dwarf King’s face as he sucks Bilbo’s cock. That thought is easily enough to be his undoing, and his tosses his head back against the furs.

"Ah, Thorin!" His fingers knot so tightly again in the dwarf King's hair, until he can feel the throb of his pulse in his fingertips. After that his voice fails him, reducing him to whimpers and gasps and near sobs as his pleasure builds and builds until it is almost painful. The Dwarf King chuckles deeply at a particularly heart felt gasp and groan, and the vibration shoot straight up Bilbo's spine and his mind goes white.

When he blinks the bleary pleasure from his eyes - his chest still heaves with his breath and his skin is soaked with sweat - Thorin is licking his lips in a manner Bilbo thinks is especially provocative, cuffing a hand across his beard to wipe the excess of Bilbo's spend from his chin.

"You..!" exclaims Bilbo breathlessly, sitting up and kicking a foot out, doing his best to ignore that his shirt and waistcoat are snagged on his elbows and his trousers and underclothes are hanging off his hips. Thorin barely twitches at the impact on his thigh – Bilbo had suspected as much would happen -  and starts to undo the laces of his tunic _himself_ , which is simply not on. "Oh now, stop that!"

Thorin twitches a shaggy eyebrow and stops obediently, hands braced on his hips. "Now this is a complaint I have not heard from you before. Do you not wish me unclothed?"

"I do," says Bilbo peevishly. "But this is a pleasure I wish for myself!"

Making a noise of pleased acceptance, Thorin holds his arms out welcomingly. "Feel free then, Master Hobbit. You are welcome to me."

It is thoroughly tricky for a hobbit to wrestle a dwarf,  particularly one as a powerful as Thorin Oakenshield, but Bilbo knows his lover's weaknesses.  A hobbit foot applied to the sensitive back of a knee and a clinging weight around his neck, and Thorin topples them backwards onto the pillows with a roar of laughter.  Bilbo takes advantage of his good mood to tweak his braids again and nip his ear.  The laces of his tunic are fast work for nimble hobbit fingers and Thorin eases himself up onto his elbows so the tunic and the undershirt can be whipped off and tossed to the floor.

Although Bilbo had been using his imagination liberally during his separation from his lover – and he had a very good imagination indeed – there truly  is nothing that matches up to the actual sight of Thorin Oakenshield partially undressed. Bilbo slings a leg over Thorin’s hips and arranges himself comfortably on his lap, arse rubbing against the bulge in the king’s breeches. Thorin draws a pointed breath, but rests his hands on Bilbo’s sides like neither of them are nearly naked and schools his face into a settled expression.

Bilbo decides this time is for him, regardless of the previous orgasm he had received, and sets out to remind himself of the bulk of Thorin’s chest and the strength across his shoulders. He tangles his fingers in the thick black hair trailing down his hard-packed belly and then redirects his attentions to the heavy steel grey rings through his nipples. There is a certain way that Thorin likes them to be touched, turned and twisted and tugged, and Bilbo remembers this as acutely as he remembers how to spell his own name. Doing so causes Thorin’s composure to crack slightly and Bilbo repeats the tactic with his mouth, bracing himself on the dwarf’s powerful stomach as he leans forward to lick and nibble. His tongue barbell  clinks pleasingly against the steel loops, and Thorin shivers under his touch, belly clenching tight.

While the dwarf is otherwise distracted, Bilbo’s hands are free to slither down and prey upon his belt buckle. It is complicated – as dwarf buckles are frustratingly inclined to be – but Bilbo finds himself in that stage of tipsiness which imparts an odd disconnected dexterity. The belt slides out of the buckle in moments and Bilbo shifts back to sit over Thorin’s broad thighs so he can undo laces and slip a hand in.

The sensation of Thorin’s cock settling against Bilbo’s fingers makes them both groan, a great earthquake of a shudder wracks the dwarf’s form and Bilbo has to tighten his legs against Thorin’s to keep himself astride. He squeezes his grip carefully - Thorin makes a noise not unlike a cliff face starting to give way - and then eases his handful between the opened laces and into the open. Thorin is rock hard, the heavy piercing slick and the head an almost angry colour of red. Bilbo rocks the barbell with a thumb almost absently, wondering just how he plans to take his King apart tonight. Might he stroke him to completion, teasing and tormenting him via this piercing? But there is also the temptation of leaning down right now and lapping the salty fluid from him, swallowing his cock down and enjoying the stretch of it inside his mouth and Thorin’s hand upon his hair, or the lure of the jar of oil upon one of the bedside cabinets. Of course, he thinks, eyes running up Thorin’s tightly clenched stomach to his broad chest and powerful shoulders, that there is no need to restrict his choices to just one. After all, even his own cock is starting to rouse again at just the thought of what they might do...  

"Enough!" cries Thorin, his rumble of a voice coming out more strangled than normal. Bilbo gives him another stroke, with a cunning twist of the wrist at the head which knocks the piercing just the way he knows his lover likes it, and then yelps as he finds himself being rolled over and pinned to the bed sheets once more. Thorin looms over him, gripping the loose fabric where his trousers bunch down his thighs and tugging them off sharply. He wrenches off his own just as eagerly and returns to looming just a little closer, so the head of his cock nudges into the soft inside of Bilbo’s thigh. Bilbo quickly makes his mind up on what he wants to do, and fumbles a hand out for the jar on the bedside table, fingers just catching the edge of the lid and hooking it closer.  

Thorin is holding his hand out with a look of almost regal expectation. Bilbo considers his great paw of a hand and then pours a healthy amount of the l over his thick fingers without a word.

The stretch is always impressive with heavy dwarf fingers, more so now that they have not laid together for so long, but Thorin knows Bilbo’s body and in return there seems to be some vestigial muscle memory that remembers a lover’s touch, and he opens up easily about two fingers. The slow grind of insertion and the fresh slick from the oil that Thorin has somehow managed to steal, rouses Bilbo’s cock fully and a blush of arousal scours up across his chest and paints his cheeks pink. Thorin is pressing kisses to Bilbo’s belly and inner thighs, unerringly gentle on the scrapes of beard burn he had left behind when previously servicing his lover. He seems so enthralled with his task that he appears not to sense Bilbo’s eagerness for more, and continues the slow thrust and push until he is three fingers deep and absolutely soaked with oil. Bilbo is nearly overcome and has to snatch up a very tousled braid and tug on it repeatedly and pointedly to get a response; Thorin crawls up his body and settles down, his cock nestling neatly in the crease at the top of Bilbo’s thigh. He’s heavy but comfortably so, a pointed pressure that only serves to remind Bilbo of his strength.

"How would you care to do this?" He nuzzles to the underside of the hobbits throat. "Shall we continue like this?"

As much as Bilbo loves the reminder of his mate’s brawn atop of him, there are other ways to take advantage of the dwarf’s power for his own pleasure. He spreads his palms against the dwarf’s chest, fingers entangled with the steely nipple rings, and pushes up. Normally he would have little chance of moving Thorin’s bulk, but the dwarf goes as he is directed, to sprawl out on his back.

“Come on then, Master Baggins,” says Thorin, tossing his head so his hair spreads out across the pillows more comfortably and patting his thick thighs in an encouraging manner and spreading patterns of oil across himself. Bilbo chuckles to himself and crawls up onto his lap, nudging his hips back until the hot weight of Thorin’s cock was pressing against his arse. He steals the oil and reaches behind himself to wet down the dwarf’s cock, laughing again as Thorin groans and rocks his hips up into the touch. Then, with a shaky sign of anticipation, he lifts himself up onto his knees and eases down. He is well opened and spare oil is dripping down his thighs, so the head of Thorin’s cock pushes in easily, the piercing shockingly cool as it opens him up. The sensations are so intense, he worries he might lose control then and there and so forces himself to take a moment – closing his eyes, clutching his hands to his own thighs, then to his belly and up to his chest - before pushing down further until his arse is settled comfortably in the cradle of Thorin’s lap.

He whimpers then, fully seated and utterly satisfied already. He had forgotten how big Thorin was, how his cock stretches him out and left him so full, how every slight movement rubs the piercing so nicely against his walls. He rolls his hips experimentally and nearly chokes on his own breath at the grind inside him, passing so close to that spot that always made him see stars. Thorin, for his part, looks similarly star-struck when Bilbo can summon the wherewithal to open his eyes a crack and look down; his big hands are palming an arse cheek each, squeezing softly to encourage Bilbo’s hips in their slow rock. He smiles tightly, hips twitching upwards slightly as if he can barely bear to keep still. Bilbo wonders if he should spare him -  the rock and grind is a delicious sensation but there is only so much he can ask of his King before his patience leaves him. He takes a moment to gather his centre of balance, spreading his legs a little further to secure his knees better on the sheets and grunting as it allows Thorin to reach a touch deeper inside him, before bracing himself on Thorin’s muscle strapped hipbones and lifting up.

Thorin groans, dark and hungry, his hands helping Bilbo to slide up and push down by a firm grip on his waist, leading him to a steady pace that had the sweat beading and building on his skin. It eases Thorin’s grip, and he begins to run his hands up and down Bilbo’s back, wrapping his fingers around the top of his lover’s shoulders and then down to squeeze his arse. He even trails a hand down far enough that his calloused fingertips stroke the sensitive skin where Bilbo is stretched wide about him. Bilbo gasps at that, throwing his head back and bouncing harder, and Thorin continues his explorations, murmuring in deep, earthy Khuzdul now. His hands continue to slip up and down, the scratching sensation of his callouses smoothed out by the slick of sweat on both their skins; he thumbs the gold loops through Bilbo’s nipples, traces the barbell through his navel with a careful palm and finally returns to squeezing his arse. He may be taking his own pleasure through the touches, but Bilbo can barely breathe by the end of his ministrations

Thorin is glorious beneath him, powerful and regal in the light of the lamps and the gilding of the fire, and his voice is deep as it produces the jewels of words that never fail to make Bilbo shiver just a touch. His hands set every part of Bilbo a shudder with their touch, and his cock, thick and hard and the piercing immutable at the tip, is touching all but the very best place as Bilbo takes his pleasure from him. Bilbo can want for barely anything while astride his king in this fashion, but a kiss is too good to pass on. He barely pauses in his fucking to lean down and this changes the angle of the thrusts so the piercing pushes right into the perfect spot and Bilbo gasps into Thorin’s mouth as he comes without a further touch to his cock, spend spattering Thorin’s broad stomach and rubbing between their bellies when Bilbo can no longer hold himself upright.

“My love,” murmurs Thorin, a hand heavy on Bilbo’s back and his lips against Bilbo’s forehead. He seems patient to wait out his lover’s insensibility, but Bilbo is aware of the twitch of hips against his own and the hard heat within himself.

“Take your pleasure from me,” he croaks when his gasping settles to panting, and his mind is once more connected to his body. “You have given to me twice over, and I would have a third if you had your first.”

 “Golden tongued,” says Thorin, and there is a certain amount of craning of necks to share another kiss before Thorin rolls them over. Bilbo finds himself sprawled on his back on the furs, legs splayed about Thorin’s hips and the dwarf looming down over him, hands braced either side of his head. The shift of the piercing inside him is still like lightning down his spine, leaving him breathless and clinging to Thorin’s wrists as the dwarf began to move again. Before, the fucking had been fairly leisurely, if energetic enough to raise a sweat on Bilbo’s back, but now Thorin is wild and fierce. His hips snap forward forcefully, driving into his lover with enough force to almost push him up the bed. Bilbo shifts his grip to grab a braid and tugs on it one last time – Thorin comes down for a kiss, bracing on his elbows now, and Bilbo nips and nibbles into his mouth, hands scrabbling at the shifting muscles of the dwarf lord’s powerful back. It takes Thorin only a couple more thrusts, hips pushing forward erratically and his breath loud against Bilbo’s ear as he groans out his completion and spills deep inside him. Bilbo shudders and gasps himself, nails scratching down Thorin’s spine a last time before stillness overtook them both.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo is fuzzily aware of movement after a while, and opens his eyes to see Thorin leaning above him, eyes crinkled in a pleasant smile and lips curved enticingly. Bilbo cranes up for a kiss, and they stay like that for a long while to savour the moment, until it is no longer comfortable to remain together. Bilbo’s arse aches pleasantly, but the rest of him feels damp and cool and uncomfortable where Thorin is no longer pressed to him as tightly. Grudgingly, Bilbo untangles his legs from about Thorin’s hips, allowing the dwarf to shift away slowly to sit on the edge of the bed.

He surveys the mess about them absently. The top layer of furs and sheets are rucked up and some are dampened with sweat and oil. Thorin gathers the worst up and tosses them into a pile across the room. Bilbo doesn’t fuss as he normally might – dwarves traditionally practise careers in fiery, dirty, dangerous places, and as a result their launderers are second to none. From somewhere amid the bedside tables Thorin then produces a jug of water and dampens a cloth to remove most of the mess that is rapidly drying on Bilbo's thighs and stomach. The water is pleasantly cool on his overheated, sweat slicked skin and Bilbo allows himself a brief moment of laziness to enjoy it. His muscles have the wet rope feeling he associates with a particularly thorough orgasm and his head is starting to swim vaguely again as the alcohol cuts back through the fog of lust, but there's no point lying back and relaxing until he can ensure Thorin will do the same. So he catches the cloth mid sweep across his stomach and heaves himself up with the weight of Thorin’s forearm as leverage. The dwarf permits him to wash him down as well, perhaps using the un cloth burdened hand more than strictly necessary,  and then takes it back to clear up.

Bilbo wriggles under the sheets with a sigh of joy - though rucked and wrinkled they are still silken and soft, and the furs on top are warm and heavy. Thorin sets the jug aside heavily and is about to tuck himself in beside Bilbo - and he’s already imagining the warmth of his embrace and the press of a big arm across his waist and the scratch of soft kisses - when someone _knocks_ on the _door_!

And then, even worse!, Thorin gets up from the bed and goes to answer it.

He’s _still_ naked! Bilbo would be scandalised if he wasn’t so interested in the movement of the dwarf’s buttocks. As it is, even the allure of Thorin’s backside isn’t enough to fully smooth over his exasperation that he might be left alone in bed on this night of all nights.

“Are you going to answer the door?” he asks, sitting up in bed and purposefully pushing the sheets down to display his navel piercing. Thorin chuckles and bends to sweep up a pair of breeches from the floor – by the size they are clearly Bilbo’s and the dwarf lord tosses them across the room before the person knocks again. “Have you seen yourself?”

Thorin’s braids are frayed and undone, his short beard rubbed entirely the wrong way and the whole of him is damp from the cleaning Bilbo had given him. He glances down at himself and then _grins_.

“They know what we were doing in here,” he says, in a tone that sounds distinctly proud to Bilbo’s ears. “I have no issue with being seen like this.”

“This did all began because dwarves have no shame,” says Bilbo, shrugging his shoulders and twiddling his toes against the sheets. Thorin tosses him a look over his shoulder, but stops before the door and wanders back to the bed to loom over him.

“I think I might have seduced you regardless of your interest in my body jewellery,” he rumbles in return. He is particularly beautiful when he smiles, and Bilbo can only smile back. There is still someone standing outside, but they are both still naked and have been apart for far too long.

He sits further forward, brigning himself close enough to snag a thick braid, one that is still mostly intact, and tug gently. Thorin’s eyes darken at the touch and he leans in closer. “That afternoon by the river..?”

“I remember it well and fondly.”

“You said you would teach me the meanings of your braids.” He tugs the braid again, just as the person outside knocks once more. “Do you think you have the stamina this night?”

“I think,” says Thorin, drawing the covers back, “That you could persuade me.”

**Author's Note:**

> AND DONE. woooooooo....
> 
> This was going to be straightforward porn. Now it is not. OH WELL.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and kudos'd and bookmarked, and especially thank you to those that wanted sequels! I hope you liked this one just as much!


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